Elemental Forces
by merduff
Summary: While House-sitting at a symposium in London, James Wilson has a close encounter in more ways than one.


**Disclaimer:** The characters of _House_ belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films, and Bad Hat Harry Productions, in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. _Torchwood_ and its characters were created by Russell T. Davies and are the property of the BBC.  
**Author's Notes:** This was originally started for **karaokegal**'s Come As You're Not costume party, but it got out of control. Couple of firsts here: first attempt at slash (even if it's not House/Wilson), and first attempt writing _Torchwood_. I apologize for any shortcomings on either front.

* * *

The symposium in London was on pandemic management. Normally, that wouldn't interest Wilson beyond a passing glance at the agenda and speakers. Cancer wasn't contagious, even if an annual worldwide death toll of 7 million would qualify as category 5 on the PSI. But House had been convinced to attend as the keynote speaker, and after the disaster in Prague, Cuddy had decreed that House was never to represent the hospital unsupervised. She would have done it herself, but PPTH's accreditation was happening that week, and she couldn't leave the office, much less the country. So she deputized Wilson as House-sitter in her place. It wasn't that she actually trusted Wilson to keep House in line, but she knew he could at least be counted on to mitigate the worst of the damage.

Not that Wilson was complaining. London was one of his favourite cities and he wasn't about to turn down a trip on the hospital's coin, especially when the alternative was facing the deepening silence in his home without House around to distract him. He'd played hardball with Cuddy, insisting on business class, his own hotel room, and a healthy per diem, but the reality was, he would have settled for economy, a bed in a hostel, and seats in the stalls for _Death of a Salesman_. Not that he'd have been able to convince House to go with him. Suicide, after all, wasn't much of a medical mystery.

As it happened, House was actually interested in the symposium subject, and it was Wilson who slipped out of the lecture hall one interminable afternoon, once he'd scanned the room for anyone on House's enemies list. It was all clear, and he had a few hours before he needed to browbeat House into dressing appropriately for the evening banquet, so he took the tube to St. Paul's Cathedral and walked across the Millennium Bridge to the Tate Modern. There was a Frida Kahlo exhibition that he wanted to see, but he knew what House's reaction would be if he suggested jostling their way through a crowded gallery.

He didn't have enough time to give the exhibition the attention he would have liked, settling for a broad overview rather than a careful study of each work. But in the final room he paused in front of _The Broken Column_, struck nearly breathless by the palpable agony in the painting.

"Extraordinary, isn't it?"

Wilson turned his head slightly to look at the speaker and saw a strikingly handsome dark-haired man incongruously dressed in an RAF greatcoat. Wilson wondered why the man hadn't been asked to check the coat and -- considering the time of year and number of people filing through the exhibit -- why he hadn't collapsed from heat exhaustion. But he wasn't even sweating. In fact, he looked like a walking publicity still for the hero of a Technicolor action film.

The man seemed oblivious to his scrutiny, or perhaps he was just used to being stared at. "She lived her life in constant pain, but my god did she live," he continued. "When she and Diego were in the room it was like alternating currents electrifying everyone around them." The man spoke as if he'd actually been present, but Wilson dismissed that as the affectation of an art enthusiast.

"I have a friend like that," he said, thinking of House. "But when the current is broken, the darkness can be overwhelming."

The man's eyes shadowed and Wilson thought he knew a little about darkness. "But that makes the light all the more welcome." He held out his hand. "Captain Jack Harkness," he said with a cocky grin.

"Dr. James Wilson," Wilson replied, taking his hand. From the accent, he pegged Captain Harkness as a fellow American, but four years in Montreal had taught him not to assume nationality. "Are you in London for business or pleasure?"

The grin turned vaguely flirtatious. "I've never understood why people insist on separating the two. Actually, I'm based in Wales. I'm just in London to collect a colleague who's here for a conference. That's business. This is pleasure."

Wilson had a feeling he was referring to more than just the exhibition, and he glanced around casually to see who had caught the captain's eye. But when he looked back, Harkness was looking at him.

"Going to galleries always makes me hungry," Harkness said. "It must be all those artists starving in their garrets. The restaurant upstairs should be serving tea -- or something stronger -- now. You look like you could use some clotted cream."

"Are you saying I look like a starving artist?"

"I said use, not eat. But we could do that, too."

Wilson shifted uncomfortably, a little embarrassed and more than a little intrigued. The remark reminded him of the careless innuendo House was so fond of lobbing at anyone unfortunate enough to stray into his sights. He glanced at his watch. The lecture would be ending in half an hour, barely enough time for him to get back. Wilson wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or disappointed. "Either sounds like fun, but unfortunately I have to collect my own colleague before he wanders away from the conference hall and causes an international incident."

"Now that sounds like fun," Harkness replied. "I don't suppose your colleague is into pandemics?"

"He is. And yours?"

"My medic. We have a special interest in unusual contagions. Perhaps I'll see you at the banquet tonight. Owen will whine for weeks if I deny him a Saturday night in London. And suddenly I'm not in a hurry to get home either."

The invitation was unmistakable, but Wilson wasn't sure it was one he should accept. But he was still intrigued. "I'll be running interference most of the night, but I'd welcome a friendly face." Most of the doctors they'd met already distrusted him by association. He glanced at his watch again. There were too many pubs in London to search if House slipped loose. "It was nice to meet you, Captain Harkness. I hope we get a chance to discuss art again."

"Call me Jack. And I'm open to any discussions you want to have."

They shook briefly, and then Wilson hurried away, his fingers tingling. But when he turned at the door to look back, Jack had disappeared.

* * *

Dinner went exactly as Wilson had expected. House had been in a good mood when he left the lecture -- apparently the level of stupidity during the question and answer period had been sufficiently entertaining -- and he proved far too eager to get to the banquet room, which could only mean he'd already targeted his victims. Despite Wilson's best efforts, House managed to alienate their entire table by the main course, and Wilson had to threaten to flush his Vicodin down the toilet to keep him from heckling during the speeches. While the waiters were pouring coffee, Wilson escaped to the bar to fetch a drink for House before he was tempted to brain House with his own cane.

But as he made his way back to the table, his patience restored and a scotch in hand, he saw that his seat had been taken. The newcomer, who'd at least had the foresight to bring a bottle with him, was happily arguing with House.

"You may as well drink that yourself," a voice murmured in his ear, and Wilson nearly dropped the glass. "Owen will keep Dr. House out of trouble -- or at least contain the trouble -- for a while."

Wilson turned to find Jack Harkness -- in all his greatcoat glory -- beaming at him. "Did you send him in as reinforcements? That's beyond the call of duty for a medic."

"What can I say? We specialize in rescue operations. But I didn't even have to make it an order. Your Dr. House apparently eviscerated a few people in the lecture today and Owen was eager to meet him. He loves a good argument almost as much as a good shag. Business and pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," Wilson replied, sipping his scotch.

"Oh, I certainly hope not."

There was no ignoring the innuendo, and Wilson felt vaguely uneasy, if not uncomfortable. It wasn't unusual for him to be hit on by men, and while he was practiced at making a graceful withdrawal, there was something about Jack that transcended sexuality. He hadn't expected temptation to come in this form, but it was an undeniably enticing one. "You should know a couple of things," he said, taking defensive measures. "I think you know exactly how attractive you are, but I'm not gay and I am married."

"And I don't believe in categorizing my bed partners." Jack stepped closer, his breath hot against the side of Wilson's face. "As for the married part, that hasn't stopped you before, at least according to divorce decrees one and two."

Wilson stepped away quickly. "You investigated me?"

"In my line of work it's important for me to know what -- or who -- I'm getting into."

But Wilson no longer found the innuendo amusing. "I appreciate your help with House and I'm flattered, but I'd better relieve your colleague before House goes on the attack."

Jack grabbed his arm as he walked away. "Don't worry about Owen. He's faced far more dangerous creatures than Gregory House. And I'm sorry for invading your privacy, but I'm always suspicious when the perfect man crosses my path."

"Now you're just making fun of me," Wilson snapped, embarrassed when his body reacted to Jack's touch with a rush of heat.

"Handsome, intelligent, cultured, impeccably groomed?" Jack grinned. "That could describe yours truly, and my enemies know how much I love myself." He slid his hand down until it was circling Wilson's wrist. "Your pulse is racing. What's the diagnosis?"

"Terror," Wilson said, though it was only one of several underlying causes.

"I think you're afraid, but not of me. Finish your drink, Dr. Wilson. A little Dutch courage is what I'd prescribe."

Wilson drained the scotch and coughed. House turned his head at the sound, always attuned to a new symptom, and frowned.

"You're such a lightweight," he called out and stood up. "How many times have I tried to teach you how to chug hard liquor?"

Between the alcohol that had just scorched his oesophagus and the renewed terror surging through every synapse, Wilson could only sputter and choke in reply. At least Jack had let go of his wrist and moved to a less intimate distance, but as House stalked towards him, Wilson felt as though he were caught between the two electrodes in a Van de Graaf generator. Frida and Diego had nothing on House and Jack when it came to electricity.

"What's the matter with you?" House demanded, the contempt in his voice familiar and comforting. He thrust a glass of water at Wilson. "Drink this instead."

Wilson gulped the water gratefully, the liquid quelling the fire, if not the terror. "Thanks," he said, his voice raw.

House just shook his head. "Can't take you anywhere." He looked past Wilson and his eyes narrowed. "Who's the pretty boy?"

"I prefer to think of myself as drop-dead gorgeous," Jack replied. He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Captain Jack Harkness."

House stared pointedly at the cane in his right hand, but Jack didn't drop his hand and House reluctantly shifted the cane to his left hand and grasped Jack's outstretched hand. Wilson half-expected them to spontaneously combust when the circuit closed, but there was no reaction, not even a diffusing of the tension.

"This is a banquet, not a costume ball," House said, not bothering to introduce himself. "Or did you wander out of the asylum and get lost?"

"Some styles transcend time," Jack replied. "At least as long as I'm wearing them."

Jack's medic, who had joined them, didn't even try to disguise an amused snort. "He should wear a sign that says, 'Don't Feed the Ego'."

"Which one?" Wilson asked, feeling a certain kinship with the younger doctor.

"Both," he replied. Clearly he'd already been treated to the full force of House's personality. "Owen Harper." He didn't hold out his hand.

"James Wilson. And you've met Gregory House," he added for Jack's benefit, as if he didn't already know.

"I won't say it's been a pleasure, but it has been enlightening." Owen shrugged on a leather jacket that House was probably already planning to steal. "If we're not heading back to Cardiff tonight, Jack, I'll meet you in the lobby tomorrow morning. _Late_ morning."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Jack said lightly.

"That's not exactly narrowing things down," Owen replied. "Have fun, yourself."

"Oh, I intend to," he said, stepping closer to Wilson. The current crackled again.

House looked at him suspiciously. "Harper here knows a club in Soho where all the strippers are double-jointed," he told Wilson. "We're going to go play 'Spot the Surgical Scar.' Wanna come?"

"I think I'll pass," Wilson said dryly. "I thought I'd get an early night and go to the breakfast presentation tomorrow. I won't wake you. Even Cuddy isn't deluded enough to think you'd attend that."

"Your loss," House said, though he didn't look all that disappointed, much to Wilson's chagrin. "Though if you change your mind and go trolling for babes, I'd ditch Captain Drop-Dead. Too much competition."

"Says the man who has to pay to see naked women." Wilson thought he should be insulted, but he only had to glance at Jack to come to the same conclusion. "But I've never had a problem with tag-teaming. Good things come in pairs."

Owen shifted impatiently. "Time is money better spent tucked in a g-string. Let's go before the punters get all the good seats." He stalked away, clapping Jack on the shoulder as he passed.

"You heard the man," House said. "I'd hate to get an obstructed view." Still, he hesitated, searching Wilson's face for a sign only he could read. Even Jack faded into the background in the face of that stare. "Don't do anything stupid, Wilson," he said finally.

The pull was so strong that for one brief moment, Wilson considered tagging along or, better yet, suggesting to House that they strike out on their own and explore late-night London. But then Owen bellowed that the cab was leaving, and the moment was broken. "I think you stole my line," Wilson said instead. He smiled and gestured towards the exit. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't miss your ride."

House nodded and strode after Owen. He didn't look back when he reached the door.

"Someone just earned his Christmas bonus," Jack murmured. "Now where were we?"

Now that the current was only running in one direction, Wilson reached for Jack's wrist and took his pulse. "Heartbeat slow and steady."

"Give it time," Jack replied, and twisted his hand to lace fingers with Wilson. "The best thing about conventions? They usually take place in a hotel." He grinned. "My room or yours?"

But the decision was more than that. Wilson could still back down, plead exhaustion or cowardice or anything to ensure a safe and lonely night in his hotel room. It was the sensible path, the one he'd been taught always to follow. Even his marriages, reckless as House made them seem, had been the expected -- if penultimate -- destination of each relationship. But he was tired of being lonely, and he was tired of being safe.

"Yours," he said, committing himself to whatever trail Jack wanted to blaze. "House has a complete disregard for anyone's privacy except his own. But I'm guessing Dr. Harper isn't the type to walk in uninvited."

"He wouldn't walk in if he were. Owen has a refreshing lack of interest in my personal life. Besides, _I'm_ smart enough to bolt and chain the door."

There was just enough emphasis on the pronoun to remind Wilson that he had no one but himself to blame for House's excessive influence on his life. But it was easier to recognize that it was a problem when House wasn't actually present. "Let's go before I lose my nerve," he said. He turned towards the door, but Jack held him back.

"Hey," he said, smiling reassuringly. "Nothing will happen that you don't want. No expectations. No pressure. Just two people getting to know each other better."

"Oh, is that what they call it in England?" Wilson replied, but he relaxed slightly, at least until they were alone in the elevator. He stared straight ahead, but he was acutely aware of Jack's presence just a step behind him. It was odd. They had barely touched -- a handshake, a touch on the arm, fingers around the wrist -- but Wilson felt connected to Jack on an almost elemental level.

"You know, I don't even know what to call you," Jack murmured in his ear. "You and House call each other by your last names, but you need years to find the intimacy in that. And while I have no objections to playing doctor, Dr. Wilson is just too formal. I'm guessing your wives call you James, and I really don't want you thinking about them."

Wilson shivered. "You can call me anything you want."

Jack laughed and wrapped his arms around Wilson's waist. "Oh, I will. Iago is the Welsh variant of James, but you're not exactly in a position to be jealous." He pressed a chaste kiss on the nape of Wilson's neck. "What about Jamie? You look like a Jamie to me."

"My grandmother called me Jamie." The last thing _he_ wanted to be thinking about right now was his grandmother. "Jimmy," he said. "Call me Jimmy." It was what the rest of his family called him, but it was also what House called him in those rare moments of affection, mocking or not. He liked being Jimmy.

"Jimmy it is," Jack said as the elevator doors opened. "I served with a Jimmy once. One of those fresh-faced, wide-eyed kids that you think won't last a day in the trenches. But they always seem to surprise you. I'm at the end of the hall. Close to the fire exit if you feel the need to flee."

He did. Wilson was fairly certain this was the craziest thing he'd ever done, and that included more than a decade of friendship with House. Even the affairs that had destroyed his first two marriages seemed like measured, sane actions in comparison. The smart move would be to keep walking to the stairwell and retreat to his own room, turn on the television and watch late-night movies until he fell asleep. It wasn't too late to change his mind. He could apologize, pretend it had all been a misunderstanding, or even run away without a word. Instead, he stopped and waited for Jack to unlock the door.

He wasn't sure what he had expected -- a suite, a brothel, maybe even a bunker -- but it was just a standard hotel room, smaller than his own deluxe room, and definitely smaller than the suite House had demanded and received as the keynote speaker. Aside from a table and chair in the corner, a television mounted to the wall, and a door to the bathroom, the main feature of the room was a bed. It wasn't even king-sized. "Cosy," he said, the word barely scraping out of his suddenly dry mouth.

"I'm not big on frills," Jack replied. "This is luxury compared to some of the places I've lived." He closed the door and turned to face Wilson. "So. Let's get to know each other."

"You already know everything about me," Wilson replied, finding some equilibrium in lingering outrage. "Unless there were gaps in your intelligence."

"There are always gaps in intelligence," Jack said. "Like what's a nice guy like you doing in a stranger's hotel room?"

"I think we both know that the gender of the stranger is the only anomaly here." Framing it that way helped relax Wilson. He had done this before -- seduced and been seduced. He wasn't proud of it, and he knew that if he confessed this evening to his wife it would be the end of the marriage, but he wasn't sure he cared. He didn't know when his marriage had stopped mattering to him, had become nothing more than a living arrangement, but he did know that right now Jack was less of a stranger to him than Julie had been for months. And yet all he knew about him was his name.

"Are you a pilot?" Wilson asked. "Or is the coat an affectation?"

"I've been a pilot," Jack replied. "And a captain. I assumed the coat, but I've earned it as well. I've done more things, been more places than you can possibly imagine."

His voice was low and full of wonder. Wilson knew he must be exaggerating, but in that moment he believed every word. "Tell me," he said.

"I can't. And even if I could, you wouldn't believe me." He smiled sadly and walked into the bathroom.

Wilson leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He could still open the door and walk away. It was his last chance to turn back, the last exit before the bridge. But life was full of last exits that turned out to be first stops, and even if there was only one stop, the journey was still worth taking. He opened his eyes when he felt a glass pressed into his hand.

"Drink this. A little more slowly this time." Jack leaned his shoulder against the wall and sipped from a bottle of water. "How are you doing?"

Wilson smiled. "A little freaked out. I'm not sure if this is an early mid-life crisis or delayed sexual confusion."

"Maybe it's just taking advantage of an opportunity. A chance to connect with someone, no strings, no expectations."

"Why me?" Wilson had wondered that since their first meeting. "The gallery was full of people, and I take it you don't limit your options."

"Is that a nice way of saying I'd sleep with anything that moves?" Jack smirked and reached out to brush his knuckles down the side of Wilson's face. "I'm a little more discriminating than that." _I can afford to be_ was the unspoken addendum. "It was the way you were looking at that painting. Like you wanted to take away her pain. Most guys would have been staring at her breasts."

"So you figured I was gay?"

"I figured you were seeing more than just the surface." He loosened Wilson's tie. "And I felt a connection. Didn't you?"

Wilson could only nod. He could still feel the connection pulsing between them. He turned away to put the glass down on the bedside table. Chemical courage could only take him so far. But when he straightened back up, Jack was standing in front of him, staring directly into his eyes, and he only had to stand still and let the inevitable happen.

Jack reached up and pulled Wilson forward by the nape of his neck until their lips met. It was a surprisingly gentle kiss, one that asked permission, and Wilson gave it tentatively. The kiss deepened and Wilson clutched the greatcoat, the heavy wool bunching between his fingers as Jack's hands ran through his hair.

Wilson pulled away, gasping. "This is going to sound like a cliché," he said, trying to regain some control of the situation, "but I've never kissed a man before."

Jack just smiled. "You're a natural, then." He reached up and rubbed his thumbs over Wilson's temples soothingly. "Don't worry," he whispered. "It doesn't mean you're gay, it just means you're adventurous."

It sounded like something House would say. Wilson laughed and leaned in for another kiss. "No one's ever called me adventurous before," he murmured. "Though House would say he'd always suspected I played for the other team."

"Sexuality isn't a competition, it's a pick-up game," Jack replied, pushing Wilson's jacket off his shoulders. "And if you're going to bring House into the bedroom, then you'd better be doing it literally."

Wilson's mind shut down trying to process that idea, and the next thing he knew he was landing on his back on the bed, his shirt unbuttoned and his pants unzipped. "Whoa," he said, shaking his head. "You work fast."

"I learned the hard way not to waste time," Jack replied. He straddled Wilson, his forearms framing Wilson's head, his body shadowing the length of Wilson's torso. "Sometimes all you have is a moment. And sometimes an eternity isn't long enough." He dipped his head down, kissing Wilson's forehead.

It felt like absolution, though whether it was for a sin past or future Wilson couldn't tell. He wondered what act of devotion or worship would be required for a grant of indulgence. Jack's hand ghosted down his neck, a touch so light it barely brushed his skin, but enough to raise goose bumps on his flesh. Fingers skimmed over his cotton undershirt and down his arm to his hand, and he couldn't stop a shudder from rippling through his body.

"We need to level the playing field here," he gasped, pushing at the greatcoat until Jack straightened up and shrugged it off. "The suspenders, too. God, you wear more clothes than I do."

Jack laughed and slid off the suspenders, then pulled his button-up shirt up and over his head. The boots and pants were just as quickly shucked off. "There you go. Down to our underwear. We could be posing for a Calvin Klein ad. Now where were we?" he mused. He leaned down and kissed Wilson on the forehead again, and then each eye and each corner of his mouth.

Wilson reached beneath Jack's t-shirt and swept upwards, his hands traveling along lean muscles, mapping each rib with care, until at last he settled on the chest, thumbs lightly circling each nipple.

Jack gasped and moved his mouth down, swirling his tongue around the soft flesh behind Wilson's ear, nibbling the lobe. "The straight ones always go for the breasts," he teased, blowing in Wilson's ear until he squirmed and laughed.

"Killing the mood," Wilson complained, though he couldn't bring himself to make his hands travel below the belt, so to speak. Sex was much easier when he didn't have to think about it. Then Jack ground down on him and he stopped thinking again. "Oh, Jesus," he moaned.

"Met him once," Jack replied. "Charismatic, but nowhere near as good-looking as me."

He'd once thought House's egotism knew no bounds, but at least it was contained within his lifetime. First Frida Kahlo, now Jesus of Nazareth. Jack had spoken as if he really had met them both, which was impossible. Apparently some things were worse than a mid-life crisis or sexual confusion; he was either having a nervous breakdown and living out a Highlander fantasy, or he was about to have sex with a madman.

"Neither of us are insane," Jack said, as if reading his mind. "Just stop thinking so hard. You're supposed to be enjoying yourself. Most of my bed partners have lost higher brain function by this time. At least the ones that had it to begin with."

"That's not helping," Wilson said, thinking about the coma ward and chips shared over an inert body. He wondered what House was doing, whether he would get a call at an inopportune time demanding directions back or the delivery of cab fare in the lobby. "Harper will make sure House gets back all right, won't he?"

Jack rolled onto his back. "Talk about killing the mood." But before he could say anything else, they heard a distinct click, and the door handle started to turn.

"I thought you were going to bolt and chain the door," Wilson whispered.

"I altered the lock," Jack replied, rifling through a small bag beside the bed. "No one should be able to open it, not even the front desk." He pulled out what appeared to be a gun, though it didn't look like any weapon Wilson had ever seen. "Stay back."

There wasn't much room to move, but Wilson scrambled back against the headboard as Jack pressed himself against the wall, weapon raised and ready. Wilson wished he had a weapon, too. He glanced around quickly, but short of trying to rip the lamp out of the wall, he had nothing more lethal at hand than a pillow. Not that he would need a weapon. It was just someone at the wrong door. Jack had obviously been mistaken about the lock. They'd give some drunken tourist a heart attack, and then laugh about it afterwards. One day he'd even tell House the story. Some of it, at least.

But it wasn't a tourist that opened the door, sober or drunk. It wasn't even human, as far as Wilson could tell, not that there was time to make a scientific analysis. One minute the door was closed, the next it crashed open, and Jack was flying across the room. Wilson thought he heard a crack and he hoped it was something inanimate, rather than something important, like Jack's neck.

He didn't have time to check, however, because the thing in the doorway was moving towards him. He'd been lying to Jack before, or rather he'd had no concept of what terror really was. Flirting with a stranger at a convention was titillating; facing a monster in a tiny hotel room unarmed was terrifying. He really didn't think the pillow would do much harm or good, so he did the next most futile thing and grabbed the glass off the bedside table, throwing the contents in the monster's face. Then he threw the glass for good measure. The glass missed -- House always said he threw like a girl -- but the alcohol found its mark. The monster screamed and staggered backwards, and Wilson dove for the bathroom, looking for the bottle.

But his pants were tangled around his ankles, and he toppled to the floor when he tried to stand up. The tiles were cool and soothing against his flushed face, and he almost didn't care that he was about to die half-naked in a bathroom. House was going to have a field day with that. He whimpered once, waiting for mutant hands to break his neck or disembowel him. It was cold comfort knowing that his parents had been lying to him all along -- there were such things as monsters, not just under the bed or in the closet, but wandering the hallways of four-star hotels.

Then he heard another crack and a heavy thud and the sound of harsh breathing, which turned out to be his own. It was probably a good idea to get up and investigate, but Wilson wasn't sure he wanted to see anything else, so he just curled into a ball on the floor and waited to wake up from the nightmare. Something touched him on the back, and he yelped and kicked out with his feet, managing only to smash his heel against the bathtub.

"Jimmy, it's all right. You're safe."

It was Jack's voice, which meant the first crack hadn't been a broken neck. Wilson was fairly certain he was neither all right nor safe, but he probably wasn't in mortal danger any longer, so he sat up.

Jack was crouching beside him, his right arm dangling uselessly. He was holding the strange gun in his left hand, but he put it down when he saw Wilson flinch. "Nice move with the drink," he said. "Troilogs can't metabolize alcohol. Even touching it causes a painful reaction. It's no wonder they're so pissed off all the time." He grinned, though it was more for show than anything else. "Just wait here a minute and I'll get someone in to sort this out."

Wilson nodded. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave the bathroom. He wondered if he could ask Jack to switch their rooms and he could sit here until it was time to leave for the airport Monday morning. But Jack winced when he stood up and Wilson's medical training kicked in. "Your arm," he said. "Let me look at it."

"I'm okay," Jack said. "It looks worse than it is." He left before Wilson could protest and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Wilson managed to drag himself onto the toilet seat while he listened to the rise and fall of Jack's voice. Pulling up his pants seemed to be an excellent idea, but his hands were shaking too much to fasten the fly, so he left them loose on his hips. Hopefully there wouldn't be any more attacks from alcohol-intolerant monsters. He grabbed the bottle of scotch from the counter just in case.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there shivering. He wanted to call House to come rescue him, but his cell phone was in his jacket pocket, and House's battery was dead anyway. Besides, he wasn't sure he wanted House to find him hiding in a bathroom with his pants undone. He started at a soft knock on the door, gripping the bottle harder as the door pushed open.

But it was just Jack, pants and suspenders back on. He'd managed to button up his fly, but then Wilson had the impression Jack was used to being attacked by Troilogs or whatever it was that thing had been. "The coast is clear," he said. "I left her tied up in the janitor's closet for the clean-up crew to pick up."

"Her?" Wilson asked, as if that were the strangest detail. "That was a woman?"

"It was a female," Jack conceded. "I captured her mate last month, so she's a little pissed off at me. Sorry you had to be part of that."

Wilson started to laugh. He could hear the hysteria in it, but he was powerless to stop. Even when Jack pulled him to his feet and wrapped him tightly in a hug he couldn't stop laughing. Then he realized Jack was holding him with both arms and he pulled away.

"Your arm," he said, suddenly sober. "It was broken."

Jack flexed the arm and made a fist. "Just a pinched nerve. I'm fine now."

He might not be a diagnostic genius like House, but Wilson had spent enough time in the clinic to be able to identify a broken arm with just a quick glance. He let it go, though. Maybe everything had been a figment of his imagination.

Jack took the bottle from him and scrounged up another glass, pouring a generous measure. "Drink. You really need it this time."

Wilson took the glass and drained it without a second thought. If nothing else, the experience had improved his ability to chug alcohol. House would be impressed. But something in Jack's expression -- relief or satisfaction -- made him splutter and gag after all. He had seen that expression too many times on House's face not to be wary. "Did you put something in the drink?" he demanded. "Am I on the list for the clean-up crew as well?" He gagged reflexively and wondered if it were too late to induce vomiting.

"Take it easy," Jack soothed. "It's just an amnesia pill. It won't hurt you, it will just erase all your memories relating to what just happened. You'll wake up tomorrow morning in your own bed with a mild hangover and a vague recollection of drinking too much at the banquet. You won't remember the Troilog. You won't even remember me, which is a shame, but sexual confusion and an alien encounter in one night is too much for anyone to process."

"What about the art gallery?" Wilson said, deliberately not thinking about the fact that he'd narrowly avoided becoming an X-file statistic. "Won't I remember meeting you there? And House. He talked to you. He's out with one of your colleagues. He'll be suspicious if I don't remember you." But he knew the answer to that problem before he'd finished speaking. "You can't just slip him some strange drug. He's on Vicodin and god knows what else. The interactions could be fatal."

"Owen knows Dr. House's medical history. He'll make sure he's okay." Jack took the glass from Wilson and rinsed it carefully in the sink. "Don't try and make sense of it. It will just speed up the effects of the retcon. We have maybe half an hour before you fall asleep. Let's not waste it."

"You were just attacked by an alien and you want to have sex?" Wilson wasn't sure why that surprised him. Jack was acting as if it were all in a day's work. Except he was beginning to realize that _was_ Jack's work. "Oh, god. You hunt aliens for a living. And I'm guessing you really did meet Frida Kahlo."

"It's more a calling than a living," Jack replied. "And I knew Frida -- and Diego -- intimately." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Wanna re-enact some art history?"

Wilson dropped back down on the toilet seat. "I think I'm going to have a panic attack," he announced, though in fact he felt strangely calm, which was clearly the first sign of a mental breakdown. He covered his face with his hands and breathed deeply. It was just a nightmare, he told himself. Everything would be forgotten in the morning. But the hand gently stroking his hair was anything but nightmarish, and he reached out blindly to grasp Jack's other hand. "Now I'm terrified," he admitted, looking up at Jack.

"It's all right," Jack said, running his hand down the side of Wilson's face. "Come to bed. I'll help you feel safe again."

Wilson didn't think that would be possible, but he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and led to the bed. He stood mutely until Jack gently pushed him down and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. "I can't," he said, when Jack put an arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple. "I don't know what to do." He didn't know what he thought he was doing before, but now he knew he was so far out of his depth he couldn't hope to touch bottom.

"You don't have to do anything. Just lie down. I promise I won't hurt you."

Wilson lay back, because he didn't know what else to do. Jack swung his legs onto the bed, but when he took off his shoes, Wilson started to laugh again. "I wonder if when my mother told me to always take my shoes off _before_ my pants, she was trying to prevent me from falling on my face while trying to escape an alien in the middle of my first gay sex experience."

"Mothers can be pretty resourceful," Jack said, slipping off his suspenders again. "I'm sure she wanted you to be prepared for any eventuality." He lay on his side facing Wilson, propped up on one elbow. "And you weren't trying to escape, you were going for more ammunition. I'd say that's pretty resourceful, too. And brave." He leaned down and kissed Wilson, then smoothed the hair off Wilson's forehead. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture from a man capable of subduing hostile aliens. "That's a hell of a turn-on."

That wasn't the only thing. It was entirely possible that Jack had slipped an aphrodisiac in with the amnesia pill. Or maybe it was just Jack. Either way, Wilson desperately needed more contact. He pulled Jack down, wrapping his arms and legs around him. He still had no idea what he was doing, but instinct made him want to seek shelter in any way it was offered.

"It's okay," Jack murmured. "I've got you. I won't let go." He rolled them over, freeing his hands to stroke soothing patterns on Wilson's back. It was comforting, but it wasn't enough.

This time Wilson initiated the kiss. It wasn't tentative and it wasn't gentle, and Jack responded eagerly, as if he'd only been waiting for a green light to slam down the accelerator. They grappled, pushing and pulling at limbs and clothing, until sweat slicked their now-bare skin. Jack arched his head back and Wilson nuzzled the base of his neck, marking it lightly with his teeth. It wouldn't outlast his own memory of the evening, but at least it was a sign, however transitory, that he had been there.

He was close to release and he could tell by Jack's uneven breathing that the other man was as well. He ground down, seeking friction and heat, and Jack's hips bucked against him in response. It was too much and he came hard, dimly hearing Jack shout his name through the roaring in his ears and his own cry of pleasure.

Spent, he collapsed onto Jack's chest panting. He hadn't had sex like that since his teens, when he would rub between the thighs of his girlfriends, their cotton underwear the only barrier to their chastity, but a barrier nonetheless. But none of those awkward early couplings had given him anything more than a brief physical release. This had been so much more than that -- a physical connection that seared through him as he lay with his head on Jack's chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath.

"I can't believe I did that," Wilson said, when he could talk again.

"What's a little frottage between friends?" Jack said lightly, playing with the damp curls of hair at the back of Wilson's neck.

"That was..." Wilson had no words to describe what it was. His body still thrummed, as if he had plugged himself into an electrical socket. But what was novel and overwhelming for him must have been mundane to a man who fought aliens. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't made sure his partner had been completely satisfied. "I'm sorry. It can't have been very good for you." He started to roll away, but Jack held him still.

"Life-affirming sex is the best thing in the universe," he said. "Trust me, I know. It's not about the release; it's about the connection. I can still feel it -- can't you?"

Wilson nodded. Every beat of his heart was attuned to Jack, as if their pulses were a single unbroken circuit. "I don't want to forget," he said suddenly. "There must be an antidote, something to counteract the effects of the amnesia pill." But already he could feel himself drifting to sleep. It was a struggle just to keep his eyes open.

"Don't fight it," Jack said. "It's okay. I won't forget. I'll remember for both of us." He pressed Wilson's hand against his chest. "We'll still have that connection. The retcon can't touch that."

But in the morning he would be alone in his hotel room, with only murky memories of the night before. It would be no different from any other evening lost to too much alcohol. He'd get up, go to the breakfast presentation, rouse House in time for lunch and the afternoon lectures, maybe carve out a few hours at the Science Museum. Nothing would have changed. And yet everything had. He wasn't the same person who had stood in front of a Frida Kahlo painting that afternoon and tried to understand her pain.

He wondered if he would sense something missing, or something gained.


End file.
